My Heart Soars
by Somepatriot
Summary: Alfred F. Jones was a pilot. Not a fighter pilot, or a teenager who has been flying since he could walk, or anyone special. No, Alfred F. Jones flew commercial planes. It was a dull, repetitive job that was only made bearable by his wonderful crew and the places he got to see. Until someone new was added to the crew and everything changed. 3shot USUK
1. Chapter 1

Alfred F. Jones was a pilot. Not a fighter pilot, or a teenager who has been flying since he could walk, or anyone special.

No, Alfred F. Jones flew commercial planes. It was a dull, repetitive job that was only made bearable by his wonderful crew and the places he got to see. At twenty three years of age he had the entire United States mapped out in his head. But anywhere outside of that was kind of a mystery.

That's what his co-pilot had been for. He was an older man with whiskers and crinkled eyes. But he just retired, and Alfred wasn't sure if flying would be the same without the old coot.

He was supposed to meet his new CP today, and then they would be off on a flight to Madrid, Spain. Alfred was nervous. Without Pops to help him through flying across the Atlantic and actually arriving in the correct country...

He had the jitters as he went through security with his hat tucked under his arm. He nodded with a shaky smile to the woman checking the bags. He was probably emitting suspicious vibes, which made him nervous all the more. What if someone thought he was a bomber?

What is his new co-pilot was one of those proper, can't-take-a-joke guys? When you're a pilot, your crew is your family away from home. Alfred had spent countless nights sleeping in the same hotel room as Pops or Beth or Janet. He'd fallen asleep in the boarding area, on someone's lap. He'd have so many conversations in the cockpit, it was strange to talk anywhere else. Alfred couldn't handle a dull coworker.

The blonde man adjusted his dark coat and picked up his tiny carry-on, shaking off the bad thoughts. He had a person to meet and a plane to fly, he couldn't have his nerves in a twist.

After wading through thousands of people and explaining to hundreds more that just because he was a pilot didn't mean he knew where the bathroom was, he arrived at the gate. It was packed with people bundled up in scarves and hats. This particular flight was going off to Canada, it seemed. His plane wouldn't be fueled for quite some time now. He was only here to meet this mysterious CP.

He spotted him by the window. He was facing away from the crowds, but he looked pretty young. Alfred was disappointed. But he supposed he wouldn't ever get another Pops. He made his way over, wheeling his black suitcase behind him. He felt like a kindergartener showing off his cool wheel-y backpack. It felt like the man at the window was miles away. Alfred's tongue was dry and heavy in his mouth. The people waiting for their plane looked at him hopefully.

_No, I'm not your pilot. _Alfred stared at them apologetically.

Suddenly, he had crossed the many miles and was standing at the window. He swallowed thickly, and tapped the man's shoulder. "Excuse me."

The new CP turned. He had his cap on over his blonde hair. He had deep green eyes that really did look beautiful, and he was all-around handsome. However, Alfred's hopes died in his chest as he stared at that unbearably professional expression. The blonde's heavy eyebrows were set into his face like he had been born nonchalant. The man didn't bother with a smile as he held out his hand and quipped a short greeting.

"Hello, my name is Arthur Kirkland. Before you ask—I am from England. It will be a pleasure working with you."

Alfred frowned and let his shoulders slump. He grasped Arthur's hand loosely. "The name's Jones. Alfred F. Jones."

…

"Hello everyone and welcome aboard flight 229, bound for Madrid. I'll be your captain. I hope you all have a wonderful experience with us, and please notify the flight attendants if there is a problem."

Alfred snapped the fuzzy intercom back into it's place and turned to the wheel. Arthur (or 'CP Kirkland' as Alfred called him) was flipping switches quietly, and with measured precision. Alfred sighed again, and grasped the wheel, easing the plane out of the dock and onto the runway.

"You sigh a lot."

Alfred snapped his attention back to the blonde man. That's not a very smart thing to do while driving a plane, and Alfred nearly had a heart attack when he realized where his eyes were. He turned back to the road in a millisecond. "I just miss my old CP. He was a real catch."

Kirkland was silent for a few moments. He kept flipping the switches that he was supposed to. "What made him so special?"

Alfred shrugged, finding the plane straight on the runway. He pulled his headset over his head and watched Kirkland do the same. "He was a good man," Alfred breathed into the microphone. "I could talk to him about anything, he really felt like my best friend at times." There was yet another pause as the engine kicked up it's whine.

Kirkland asked for permission to enter the main runway. Then they were in line to take-off.

The new Co-pilot didn't talk much. The whole process of taking off, he only muttered a few necessary words or polite questions about the crew. It seemed like the more questions Alfred answered, the quieter the man became.

They were a full half hour into the flight before Kirkland spoke again. "This is actually my first flight as a CP."

Alfred glanced over at the Brit. That was actually quite strange. Usually people who did international flights had much more experience. Kirkland stared out at the clouds and continued. "I was actually pretty nervous to start out. I've heard a lot about how crews can be cruel to the newcomers and..." He let the sentence die.

Alfred turned to him with a genuine smile. "Hey, don't worry about it. I'll take care of you."

If Arthur had told him he was just nervous, Alfred would have been a whole lot kinder. He wasn't the best at reading the mood, and he mistook the will to impress with professionalism.

"Welcome to the crew, Arthur."

**Hello and thanks for reading my little fic! It's only gonna be three chapters, though. **

**I got this idea from both a picture and the fact that my dad used to be a pilot. The thing I remember him complaining about the most is the random people in the airport asking himwhere things were. He was a pilot, so he worked on the plane, not the airport. He didn't know himself and used to get so angry about it.**

**Sorry for any mistakes! I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	2. Chapter 2

First impressions can be very misleading. Alfred, when he first met Arthur Kirkland, thought he was professional, shy and quiet.

It only took Alfred three days to figure out he was terribly, horribly mistaken. But now he was a full month into working with Arthur. He'd stopped calling him "CP Kirkland" and instead branded him "Artie." The flight attendants were used to the occasional fight on their way to a hotel or a restaurant. They tried to keep it down in the cockpit, for the sake of the passengers, though.

Alfred F. Jones had never had a better co-pilot, and every late night, crowded line, and shabby hotel where he was with Arthur was a great one. In just a short month Alfred learned enough information about Arthur to write a biography. He loved listening to his accent, his rants, and especially his past.

"God, I'm tired as hell," Arthur said, dragging his suitcase after him as he followed Alfred into the airport. Alfred nodded in fatigued agreement. "What country are we in, again? And where's the rest of the crew?"

Arthur rolled his tired eyes. "Do you ever listen? They told us they were going to meet some old crew members at a restaurant. You said you'd stay with me. And we're in _Sweden_, for the last time."

Alfred blinked, but continued walking. No wonder everyone was wearing such thick clothing. It was barely Spring. Great, Alfred hated the cold. The airport was small and smelled of old snow. They worked their way through the minimal crowds, and eventually arrived outside. It was dark, closer to morning than night, and absolutely freezing. Patches or snow greeted Alfred as he stepped out of the building. He gave a girlish squeal. So much for being tired. "Artie, it's freezing!"

The Co-pilot rolled his eyes for what must have been the billionth time that day, and pulled a scarf out of his suitcase. He wrapped it around his own neck. "Well, what would you like me to do about it? I can't control the weather."

Alfred muttered something under his breath about how he was surprised Arthur admitted that he couldn't tame anything. Arthur yelled at him, and they continued fighting until Alfred realized they had missed three possible cabs and his toes were beginning to go numb.

They hailed a taxi, clambered in, and enjoyed the short defrosting period as they rode into town. It was busy in the tourist district, but Alfred and Arthur were both experienced enough to know that one should never stay where the tourists do if you want some place cheap. They told the cab driver in as clear English as they could manage (and a few broken Swedish words on Arthur's part) to drive them somewhere local. He obliged, and soon the foreign blondes found themselves standing outside of a motel-type of building. They were too tired to care exactly where they slept at this point. They paid their driver, caught a room, and trudged up the stairs.

If Alfred had been any more lively, he would have noticed Arthur's strange mood change. He got quiet, and his blush wasn't from the cold anymore. Had it been a normal day, Alfred would have realized that this was the first time he had shared a room alone with Arthur. But it wasn't, and he didn't. Instead he flopped onto the creaking bed that smelled like moss and fell asleep.

You see, Arthur Kirkland had a secret. He liked Alfred. Not anything major—it would probably disappear if he ignored it enough. But he felt a fondness for the man who was so excited to fly and to talk to him. He loved seeing that (handsome) face every time he came into work. But most of all, Alfred just made him happy.

Arthur gently removed the cap from Alfred's snoring head.

"Dear god," he muttered, "if you were gay, I'd kiss you right here."

**No, Alfred is actually asleep. Don't get your hopes up. **

**Last chapter next time!**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American! (Critique is welcome)**

**-Mallory**


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred didn't show up to work. In another profession, simply "not showing up" might not have been such a big deal. But when you're flying quite a number of people across oceans, it's rather crucial that you arrive on time.

But Alfred wasn't there.

Arthur was really starting to get worried. Alfred loved his job. He always came in a few minutes early, no matter the time of day, a coffee in one hand and his hat in the other. He would smile so wonderfully, maybe take Arthur into a hug if they hadn't flown for a while. The crew would all greet him merrily-if it was the right time of the day. Then they would all board the plane and Arthur would start their daily bickering.

Arthur glanced down at his watch. Alfred was half an hour late. Every one was already on board. They were getting impatient. Even the crew was annoyed with the blonde captain. But Arthur was only worried. Something had to have happened. He stood up from his seat, and opened the door of the cockpit. Some of the passengers stared at him, wanting to get on with the flight. It was loud, stuffy, and Arthur could understand their feelings. He coughed loudly, getting most of the cabin's attention.

"Terribly sorry," he announced, glancing around anxiously. "It seems our captain is running late. I'm terribly sorry for any inconvenience this has caused you, and if you speak with our flight attendants I'm sure we can manage to appease you. I'm just going to have to ask you to wait a few more minutes while I try to find the bloke."

The plane seemed to have mixed emotions about this, but Arthur couldn't stay to see if they were positive or otherwise. He was out the still-open door before anyone could stop him. He walked briskly through the tight gray hall before reaching the actual airport. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the air conditioning. It was a relief from the stuffy plane and rickety hall. Summer was coming on.

Arthur dug into his coat pocket and got a hold of his cellphone, quickly unlocking it and calling Alfred's personal number. "Pick up you dolt, pick up..." Arthur murmured. The phone rang once. Arthur was thinking of all the ways to start their conversation. Possibly 'where the hell are you' or 'you irresponsible prat' or even 'bloody fucking wanker.' He wasn't too sure about the last one, though. There were children around the airport, though they weren't paying attention. Arthur was huddled near the gate's desk, near a potted plant with one eye on the window, to see the plane.

The phone stopped ringing. Arthur opened his mouth to choose one of his previously planned sentences, when the most horrid noise came out of the phone.

It was Alfred's voice, but it was raw and quiet. It held the most melancholy tone that had ever graced the Brit's ears. It only said one word.

"Artie."

Arthur clutched the phone tighter, concern rushing through his veins. "Alfred? Whats happened? Are you alright?"

There was a pause on the other end. Something rustled. A deep, broken breath. "No, I'm not alright." There was a stifled sob. "Artie, there's been an accident."

Images flashed through Arthur's mind. Alfred was lying bloody on a hospital bed, the machine beeping erratically beside him. Arthur began pacing. "How bad are you? What happened? Alfred, please."

Arthur's throat was closing up. The images were becoming more and more violent. He didn't want to admit it, but Alfred was his best friend. And those feelings haven't gone away. The feelings one should never have for their best friend consumed Arthur completely now. He'd tried to ignore it. But there was no use ignoring it now.

"It was a car. I was driving, we were just going home. It was dark. We didn't see it. Artie, I didn't see it..."

"Alfred, it's alright, I promise. Just hang on."

Arthur ran back through the stuffy gray hall, clambered back through the heavy open door, and grabbed the first flight attendant he saw. "Alfred's in the hospital," he hissed, the phone still clutched in his hand. He hadn't ended the call yet. He hoped Alfred hadn't either. "I'm going to go see him. He can't fly anyway, so just call in for an emergency replacement."

The girl rattled in Arthur's heavy grip. When did he grab he shoulders? He stared at her with wild eyes as she shook he head. "Arthur, you can't just leave—I mean, it's the start of-"

Arthur groaned, and let her go. "Blast protocol! I have to go, you know that! If I get in trouble then so be it. Blame it all on me, just do what you have to do! I have to _go._"

She nodded numbly. Arthur took off.

"Alfred? Are you still there?"

"Yeah."

"You need to tell me what hospital you're in."

"Arthur-"

"Just tell me!"

Arthur pushed through the crowd, nearly knocking over an old man. He shouted an apology over his shoulder and broke through the crowd. He ran down an escalator—which is something he wouldn't recommend in the future.

"It's Saint Jeanne's Hospital. But Arthur, I'm not the one that's hurt."

Arthur almost tripped over himself as he reached the edges of baggage claim. "You're what?" he yelled.

"I have a few broken bones, yeah, but Arthur..." Alfred sucked in a ragged breath. "Matthew's dying."

…

Arthur met Matthew a few months ago, just after New Years. Alfred had asked him out with a couple of his home friends, and Arthur had accepted. Matthew was Alfred's brother, and a very nice boy. He was quiet and polite. Arthur only spoke with him for a few minutes before he really started to like him. He was a wonderful person, and Arthur considered him a friend. After the night on the town, they'd exchanged numbers and hung out whenever Arthur was stuck in America (which was often.)

Matthew knew that Arthur had feelings for Alfred. Arthur told him one night at a bar, when the blonde in question wasn't present. Since then, Matthew had encouraged their relationship, but Arthur knew he was only being nice. Alfred didn't think of Arthur like that.

And now he was dying.

Arthur slammed open the hospital doors. No one even looked up. They were probably opened in such a fashion often. He ran up to the desk. Luckily, no one was in line. They were all just waiting around, staring at him and hoping to be called next. "Please," Arthur huffed, gripping the edge of the desk. "I need to see Matthew Jones."

The woman with thick ugly glasses looked up from her computer. "What's the name again?"

"Matthew Jones."

Her fingers clacked against the old white keyboard. She scrolled over a few pages before smacking her lips and drawling in a nasal, pinched voice that "Matthew Jones doesn't exist."

Arthur's throat convulsed in complete frustration. "Of course he bloody well exists! I've seen him with my own eyes! Now type the name in your fucking computer and tell me what his fucking room is!"

She woman's ugly brows dipped in some show of emotion. "Sir, I do not appreciate your tone."

"I don't appreciate your fucking face while my friends are dying!"

The woman snorted. "Alright, fine. You said friends. What's the other one's name?

"Alfred Jones."

The woman clacked at the keyboard again. This time something came up. "He's in room 911. And yes, you can visit him now."

Arthur nodded, and ran down yet another hallway for the umpteenth time that day.

…

Alfred was lying on the hospital bed. From what Arthur could tell, he only had a broken arm. Relief swept over him, and he fully entered the room. "Alfred," he breathed.

His Captain looked up, and silence filled the room as their eyes stayed locked. Alfred's eyes were red. Then they began to fill up with tears. He let them spill.

Arthur quickly crossed the room to wrap his arms loosely around Alfred's neck. He sat on the edge of the cot and stroked his hair, making cooing noises at his ear.

Alfred's sobs racked his body. "Mattie...it's...Mattie is..."

"I know, I know. Hush, it'll be alright."

"No, no it won't Mattie's...It's all my fault..."

"It's not your fault, poppet. I promise it will be alright."

Alfred's good arm came around Arthur's back. It managed to cling so tightly to him that he could barely breath. Alfred buried his face in his friend's still uniformed chest and cried.

"Arthur, I'm so sorry."

Arthur rubbed a circle into Alfred's shoulder. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Alfred's sobs ceased. He let Arthur coddle him while his breathing returned to normal. There was no noise in the small room. "I will."

"You'll what?"

"I will be sorry for something."

Arthur leaned back a little. He looked down at Alfred's tense body. His face was still hidden by his bangs. He opened his mouth to ask what for. But Alfred was there, in front of his face. "I'm really sorry, but I just need this."

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Arthur's mouth.

Arthur was quick to respond. He's wanted to kiss Alfred. He did. He wanted to show him that he felt his pain, that he was there for him, that he cared for him more than anyone and he wasn't going anywhere. So that's what he did. Or, at least, he tried to.

…

So, as it happened, this is not a story of Alfred F. Jones the mediocre pilot, or even Arthur Kirkland the new Flight Officer. But rather, it is the story of Matthew _Williams. _The boy who, in fact, lived through his near-death experience and eventually came to work in the hospital as a nurse.

It is his story, of how he stayed up until three in the morning on the phone with either Alfred or Arthur, convincing both of them that the kiss at the hospital was surely real, and that they both most definitely felt something for each other.

It was how he laughed, years later, at the story of how both Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland lost their jobs on the same day.

He was there, fully recovered (besides the slight bend in his left arm that made it slightly shorter than his right) to help his two best friends move into their apartment together.

So, in a way, Matthew Williams was the only reason the story of Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland was finished, even if he was almost finished himself in doing so.

**Saint Jeanne's Hospital is of course named after Jeanne D'arc of France.**

**Alfred was in room 911 because of 9/11. (Though his injuries weren't connected with the date.)**

**The woman at the front of the hospital was lenient with Arthur's abuse because she's used to it, and she's also compassionate for those who are in distress. Her character is a bit complicated.**

**I hope you all enjoyed reading this little 3-shot! **

**I'm sorry it took me so long to update, but I've been really busy, and I've had some really bad writers block.**

**Sorry for any mistakes! I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


End file.
